Page 114 of Double Puck

Oh, thank Christ.

Beck walks in, and my heart does something complicated and painful. He's in a suit, a dark, rumpled thing, nothing like the gala tux that made my knees forget their job. His hair looks messier than usual, and his tie is missing entirely.

Where the hell has he been? Did he pull an all-nighter in Vegas?

He glances at me across the VIP box, but it so fast, I practically miss it.

No grin. No cheeky wink. No hey, Spreadsheet.

Nothing.

He checks his phone, frowns at whatever's on it, and drops into a seat at the very front of the box. Literally as far away from me as the room allows. Josie and Rose exchange a look over my head that they think I don't see.

I pull out my phone before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Can we talk?

I watch Beck pull his phone out, and the screen lights up in his hand. He looks at my message, and I see the tiny shift in his shoulders.

Down on the ice, Vegas forces another turnover through the neutral zone. Bailey gets caught too high, leaving Finn scrambling across to cover, and suddenly it's a two-on-one with Sawyer stranded in the crease.

He never has a chance.

Bears are down 2-0. Nine minutes in.

The suite groans as Josie swears at a man giving us the finger from in front of the window. Rose grabs the napkins again, this time for actual stress.

And Beck?

Beck puts his phone face-down on the armrest, completely emotionless. I look to my phone, waiting for the reply.

But it doesn't come.

By first intermission, it's 3-0 and the shrimp tower has become a grief-eating station for sulking Bears fans.

I make my move the second the horn sounds, weaving past the marble counter with a speech half-loaded in my head. Something professional. Something honest. Something that doesn't start with Beck, please look at me again. I miss you.

But when I get closer, he moves to the darkest corner of the suite, his phone pressed to his ear. He's animated more than usual, one hand shoved through his hair as he paces toward the far window. He's talking low and fast, his back to the whole suite.

I stop three feet away like an idiot.

He glances over his shoulder, sees me, but turns back to the window without even so much as a kind glance.

Okay. Cool. Message received.

I retreat to my seat, where Josie is watching over her sunglasses like a lifeguard about to jump in.

"That's it," she announces. "I'm going over there."

I slump back in my seat. "You're not going over there."

"I'll be polite. I'll simply walk over, smile, and rip him a brand new asshole for being such a jerk."

"Josie—"

"What? He's ignoring you. At a hockey game. That's like ignoring someone at their own birthday party." She points a fry at me, eyes steady. "There are rules, you know."

"I agree. That man has an entire second asshole coming," Rose agrees, deadly calm, which is somehow scarier. "I know where they keep the zamboni keys. I can go get it and drive it right up his—"